After publishing an excerpt from the book on this incident, something miraculous happened: a special forces soldier who was there was reading the excerpt and popped on a Facebook post with a surprising correction. He recognized Ed Ricord’s name though we had misspelled it as “Ricard”. I sat there completely dumbfounded as Russ Baker then tagged Ed in a comment. Yet another amazing outcome of the book before its even published. Poncho and I had tried several resources to track Ed down but with no success. Then out of the blue…. there he was, 25 years later.

I immediately got ahold of Poncho and told him what had just happened on the Facebook post. I then sent Ed a friend request followed by a few messages before asking if he’d be ok talking with Poncho so Poncho could thank him for saving his life. Ed agreed.

The two of them spoke by phone over the months that followed. Eventually Ed informed Poncho he’d be traveling to Ft. Sam Houston on the weekend of March 3 to pay respects to SFC Robert Deeks, a 5th Special Forces Group Soldier who was killed in Somalia in March of 1993 while A CO 1-87 & 2-87 were the QRF. Just as A CO had worked alongside 5th SFG, C CO did as well.

Poncho was extremely nervous leading up to the March rendezvous. I told him I’d fly down to be there and we’d make a weekend out of it.

When the day of their meeting arrived, they recognized each other instantly. Poncho had only been conscious for a few minutes when the Special Forces medic went to work on him. And after 25 years, each man inexplicably recognized the other, a recollection untarnished through the chaos of battle or the passage of a quarter century: the medic and his gravely wounded patient. Even more miraculous is that Ed recalls the face of every wounded soldier he worked on.

The emotion of the moment wasn’t exclusive to the two old soldiers. Poncho’s mother had come along and as they made introductions, Poncho turned to her and said “He’s the reason I’m still here.” She was visibly emotional as she thanked him again n Spanish with Poncho serving as the translator.

As the two discussed the battle in which 3 Americans and more than 200 Somali fighters were killed, Poncho’s mother got very quiet. It was the first time in these 25 years that have passed that she heard details of the battle. And the realization that her son had not only miraculously survived a terrible battle and subsequent wound, but that he had taken human lives in the process. Something few combat veterans ever discuss outside of amongst themselves. More than 15 minutes passed before she would speak again as she tried to process the details.

Poncho then presented Ed with a token of his appreciation, a statue engraved with the medic’s name. They spoke at length of the difficulties faced by combat veterans and particularly those from Somalia who were all but swept under the rug. Though we never lost militarily in Somalia, it was a political defeat that the US government wanted to just disappear largely unknown in the history books outside of October 3rd, 1993.

I’m sure Ed found the same strength in Poncho that I had found when he and I reconnected. He was happy to be alive. He struggles at times like anyone else, but he rarely shows it. Living life as a paraplegic alone takes unimaginable strength. His strength is an inspiration to all of us. It’s contagious.

The rest of the details between Ed and Poncho’s miraculous reunion will remain between them. I believe both found some healing. If you haven’t read the excerpt that covers their original meeting 25 years ago in Mogadishu, check it out here.

Read about Ed Ricord, Robert Deeks, Poncho and scores of other amazing soldiers in Behind the Gun while we tell you the rest of the story of our involvement in Somalia.

]]>https://behindthegun.wordpress.com/2018/03/04/a-miraculous-reunion/feed/2behindthegun25th Anniversary Commemoration Videohttps://behindthegun.wordpress.com/2017/12/16/25th-anniversary-commemoration-video/
https://behindthegun.wordpress.com/2017/12/16/25th-anniversary-commemoration-video/#respondSat, 16 Dec 2017 18:56:57 +0000http://behindthegun.wordpress.com/?p=4754The draft version of a video highlighting the soldiers from Behind the Gun. On 12-12-1992, 1-87 and 2-87 Infantry of the 10th MTN DIV (LI) became the first US Army soldiers to deploy to Somalia, as well as among the last to leave.

]]>https://behindthegun.wordpress.com/2017/12/16/25th-anniversary-commemoration-video/feed/0behindthegungBehind The Gun 25th Anniversary VideoThe soldiers featured in Behind the GunBlood on the Altar: Poncho’s Last Walkhttps://behindthegun.wordpress.com/2017/09/24/blood-on-the-altar-ponchos-last-walk/
https://behindthegun.wordpress.com/2017/09/24/blood-on-the-altar-ponchos-last-walk/#commentsMon, 25 Sep 2017 05:45:35 +0000http://behindthegun.wordpress.com/?p=4660SSG Tewes of 2-14 INF on September 25th under fire at the crash site. Photo Credit R. Burke.An expanded excerpt from the full chapter.

Setting: the early morning hours of September 25th, 1993 in Mogadishu Somalia. A chapter that could easily be called “The Original Black Hawk Down”. Based on the firsthand accounts of 1-87 INF, 2-14 INF, 3-75 RGR and 5th Special Forces soldiers.

Blood on the Altar

The incident we’re about to re-live in this chapter is largely unknown by the American public as a whole, but not completely. It was briefly addressed in “Black Hawk Down” and received a few paragraphs of mention in a handful of major newspapers. If I had to give the mission itself a title, it would be “The Original Black Hawk Down”. The result of this mission was 3 American dead, and 3 American wounded with two of the wounded being what I would describe as brutally severe, and one of those two is a man I call a friend and a brother. My children know his name and his gift upon the altar. However, you do not; which is a major reason as to why I’m writing this book. Those of us who know Rolando “Poncho” Carrizales call him a hero, a title he would readily reject.

In July and August of 1993, at the end of the “Summer in Hell”, the call was passed to C CO 1-87 Infantry as they were deployed to “The Mog” as attachments to TF 2-14, relieving 1-22 Infantry. By now, the US involvement in Somalia was dedicated as a Quick Reaction Force (QRF) in the city of Mogadishu. TF 2-87 had also been the main QRF for operations in Somalia, but unlike those of us in A CO 1-87 Infantry and the rest of TF 2-87, TF 2-14 was under UN control. Not only was their command structure vastly different while being under international control, their utilization was very different as well.

The 24th of September started out as just another day, a day they would refer to as another “Groundhog day”. Wake up at 0530 hours, vehicles loaded by 0600 hours and by 0900 hours chow. The day would then continue with squad drills followed by cards and “bones” while the QRF say back, waiting to be called. SSG Rossman was the squad leader for 3rd platoon of C CO 1-87 Infantry. As a Ranger, SSG Rossman was viewed as one of the most competent leaders through his soldier’s eyes as well as his superiors in the Mog. He spent the day listening to “Mad Man of the Mog” on the Armed Forces Network (AFN).

Called the Mobile Weapons Squad, their QRF mission was normally to pull rear security during missions for C CO 2-14 Infantry, while attached to the company’s TOW platoon, which was similar to our own E-87 (Provisional). With their desert camouflaged fast back hummers which they had spray painted with “C CO 1-87”, they had two .50 caliber M-2 machine guns, no fewer than TEN 7.62 M-60 machine guns and four MK-19 40 MM grenade launchers.

By mid to late afternoon, the squad began settling in for naps, which the chain of command encouraged. Being the QRF meant that at any moment you’d be called out without any idea of how long it would be before you’d get a chance to rest again. So, taking naps became a big part of “Groundhog Day” for the QRF in Mogadishu. However, today there was a birthday. Poncho was turning 23 today and the napping would have to wait a bit longer than usual while his squad mates took opportunity to celebrate a little; I imagine many of the same juvenile pranks we would pull on birthdays or holidays were much the same. Poncho still remembers the number they pulled on him that day, but I’m choosing to leave those details for him and his squad as a happy moment for them to hold on to.

At 1700 hours, the squad unloaded their vehicles for the day. As the evening turned to night and the squad lay fast asleep in their desert camouflaged uniforms and boots (DCU’s).

At approximately 0145 hrs, Ranger Adam Bittner was on guard when he saw what he described as a “fireball” in the sky over the city.

By 0200 hours the squad was awoken by 1SG Tucker. It was “Go time”. A black hawk helicopter was “missing” and the QRF was going to find them. SSG Rossman notified SPC Archibaul and SGT Boult ready the squad. This meant the QRF had to have the vehicles loaded and ready to go within 10 minutes, during which time Rossman received a five-minute briefing on the situation. During the briefing, Rossman learned that a black hawk had been shot down in the city; the pilots were alive and fleeing the crash site. SSG Rossman briefed his squad on the situation and presented their operations order. They would travel the K-4 circle to the airport, circumventing the 13 mile secure route, and they would follow aircraft to the site.

As the squad started out of the back gate, the atmosphere among the group was tense. How had Somalis managed to shoot down a black hawk, they wondered. The black hawk was said to have been traveling at over 100 knots as is flew over the city, an impossible shot with a mere Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG). They had no idea what to expect. After a while Poncho began a conversation with SGT Boult, not sure why the route seemed to be taking so long. According to the briefing they had received, it wouldn’t have taken this long to get to the crash site. As it turned out, the convoy had missed a turn to the crash site by about 100 meters.

At 0300 hours, Poncho’s Humvee was the first to arrive at the crash site. Until SSG Rossman could get the rest of the vehicles turned around, they would have to secure the site alone. Immediately Poncho’s group came under fire; an RPG exploded just behind them. They dismounted and began returning suppressive fire, with Archibald unleashing hell’s furty with the M-60 machine gun. Archibald is the only M-60 gunner that I couldn’t beat during M-60 qualification (though I was told I tied him eventually), having placed 3rd in the all Army competition, with Poncho as his AG. There couldn’t have been a finer group of soldiers defending this crash site.

When Rossman arrived, he left part of the squad further down the road making an arc type perimeter around the crash site, with Poncho’s Humvee at the 12 o’clock position, and everyone else placed at their 10 o’clock on down. Rather than being rear security, the squad was now on point. As they maneuvered into position, Poncho could see that while the left was secure, he was worried about a gap in the perimeter to his 1 o’clock.

As Rossman approached the scene on foot, having stopped two hundred meters shy, he encountered a head sized object in the road which turned out to be a smoking helmet, eventually learning it had been the helmet worn by the crew chief on the black hawk who was now dead and in the wreckage. As they approached the site, they looked for trip wires and booby traps, figuring at this point that they were walking into an ambush.

A call over the radio confirmed that the pilots had been safely recovered, so the rescue mission was now a recovery; they would be recovering the bodies of the 3 dead crew members. As Rossman moved over to Poncho’s team, all hell was being unleashed as they unloaded on the Somali positions with everything they had. The other team was covering their six at an intersection just 50 meters away as Archibald suppressed the enemy positions, exercising good fire control. As abruptly as it started, the firing stopped. Having shot high, which was pretty typical, the Somalis hadn’t managed to inflict any casualties on the group.

As SSG Rossman began to move toward the other fire team which had secured the intersection, their M-60 opened up when a Somali had come into the intersection firing an AK-47. He took cover until the firing subsided, which coincided with that team’s M-60 jamming, making a sound “you hope you never hear in combat”. After moving to Carr’s position in the intersection, he used his leatherman pliers to help Carr free up the machine gun. Once the machine gun was again operational, Carr again returned fire, this time quickly silencing a sniper.

By the time the sun began to come up, Rossman was able to make out the rotor of the downed black hawk, noticing that it looked as though it was “surgically removed”. They were beginning to run low on ammo, having consumed about 50% of their basic M-60 load, and fearing the crash site was booby trapped, they initially stayed clear of the wreckage. In the center of their perimeter was a mosque; as their initial orders were to keep everyone away, they now had to adjust to civilians heading into the mosque for morning prayer. Rossman and his men redistributed ammo and Rossman secured another few hundred rounds of 7.62mm for the machine guns.

Then a call over the radio came for Rossman to bring a poncho to the crash site; the crew chief had been located. After getting a sitrep from his fire teams and learning that Carr’s team reported only kids in front of their position, Rossman headed toward wreckage.

When he got to the wreckage, SFC Ed Ricord asked Rossman for his pliers before then reaching in and removing a dog tag from the deceased; SGT Ferdinand C. Richardson. As SFC Ricord instructed SSG Rossman on recovery procedures, the thing that stuck in Rossman’s mind the most were SFC Ricord’s instruction telling him “Above all, treat him with respect”. During the recovery, those words echoed repeatedly through Rossman’s mind. Treat him with respect. Even in death, maybe even especially in death, we respect and honor each other as soldiers. For the dead, the ultimate sacrifice has been laid upon the altar; their fight now over. As the recovery continued for the remaining crew members, the crash site again began taking more and more fire, rounds striking the wall just above the helicopter.

As Rossman moved to gather SITREP’s (situation reports) from his fire teams, he could hear SGT Boult yell out as he returned fire.

“RPG! RPG!” Boult yelled as his team began suppressing a partially opened doorway in which stood an approximately 12-year-old boy with an RPG.

The boy fired, but fired short. Though Rossman reported that he was unaware of the boy’s fate, Poncho confirms that he had been killed.

Now, as Poncho had feared, the group began taking heavy fire at their 10 and 1 o’clock positions, with the 1 o’clock being the most vulnerable. To their 1 o’clock, a 3 story building erupted with fire coming from each floor, causing the squad to return 40mm grenades in volume into the building, while the squad machine guns ripped each floor apart. Archibald yelled out that he was running low on ammo as the cobra gunships tore through the buildings around them in an attempt to cover the soldiers exposed on the ground. Rossman was able to secure another 200 rounds from 1SG Doody just as several more explosions ripped around Poncho’s Humvee.

Poncho saw Archibald retrieving something from the Humvee. Believing his gunner needed his help, Poncho got up to assist him. As Rossman got to the site, several explosions rocked the group as they took a volley of several more RPG’s, followed by automatic gunfire. As Rossman got to the team, Poncho fell back into the street, seemingly unconscious. Rossman yelled for Poncho, believing that the explosions had knocked him unconscious, but to no avail.

As Rossman grabbed Poncho, he noticed a small one-inch hole in the left side of his neck. At first, there was no blood. Within a few seconds, the wound began pulsating, covering Rossman with Poncho’s blood as Rossman immediately yelled for medic. The blood was shooting out waist high and Rossman tried his best to stop the bleeding. After several more minutes and no medic arriving to dress Poncho’s wounds, Rossman continued to save Poncho as best he could, using Poncho’s field dressing to apply pressure to the wound.

One of the FO’s (Forward Observers) SPC Gregg Long exposed himself to heavy fire as he ran to retrieve a medic for Poncho.

As SFC Ed Ricord, a Special Forces Medic with 5th SFG, arrived at their position, Poncho was again conscious and able to speak.

“What do we have here? You picked a fine place to try and lay down.” SFC Ricord calmly said to the pair.

“I think need to get the fuck out of here…” Poncho replied as he choked on his own blood from the wound in his neck.

“We’re working on it buddy.” SFC Ricord calmly replied as he took over treating Poncho’s wound from SSG Rossman.

As Rossman started to re-assess the situation of the rest of his squad, Archibald yelled out that he had been hit. SGT Boult pulled Archibald out of the turret where he had been manning the machine gun which was now conspicuously silenced. Rossman noticed a bullet hole that had ripped through the windshield of the Humvee and had initially thought Archibald had been gut-shot, but it turned out to be his thigh.

SFC Ricord worked frantically to save Poncho’s life as the fight raged on. The skill of a Special Forces medic is second to none, and in the heat of the battle, they can perform surgery on a patient. Eventually Ricord was able to pinch of the artery in Poncho’s neck enough to drastically slow the bleeding.

Rossman jumped into the turret to man the M-60, finding it difficult to operate with his hands slick with the blood of his soldiers. From the waist down he was soaked in blood, and his hands and wrists were as well. As the battle raged on, 1SG Doody and Rossman coordinated several more 40mm strikes at a sniper position, using HE and CS rounds. The gunships also took seveal passes ripping through the enemy positions in the surrounding buildings.

As the fight raged on, 2-14 was also completely engaged in the fight, as RPG after RPG ripped into the perimeter with nonstop machine gun fire. SGT Reid was struck with an RPG, blowing off one of his hands and a leg, blinding him in one eye, and leaving him covered with shrapnel wounds.

After pulling the mangled, charred Black Hawk apart by using a vehicle, and recovering the remains of the crew, the order would soon come to withdraw.

Some details have been excluded in this condensed preview version of the events.

This chapter sets the stage for the climax in Somalia and more importantly, shows you where the war on terror actually started. These are the first Americans known to have directly faced Al Qaeda, long before most of America or the world knew who they were.

​Just a week or two prior to this mission during a briefing, we were told Israeli intelligence knew of “terrorists operating in the area” and that we should be on the lookout. This is also around the time that TF Ranger began training for their mission in Somalia. March 19, 1993, Merca, Somalia.

Everything I have written about to this point, with very few exceptions, is 100% verifiable in the official combat action logs that were painfully maintained in Somalia by the battalion and brigade headquarters, at least those I have copies of. Many of the events are also listed in the bullets on the Army Commendation Medal (ARCOM) that I received for my service in Somalia, as well as my orders for the Combat Infantryman’s Badge (CIB) which specifies the date I first engaged in active ground combat. This incident, however, is conspicuously missing from the combat action log, yet it is the only incident that takes up an entire bullet block on my ARCOM recommendation. But it doesn’t state two important pieces of information every other bullet contained…. who and where. It barely contains what and how. The bullet paragraph only tells part of a story that is now official military record per permanent orders, but leaves out the details that only I and less than two dozen other people can verify. The bullet remark reads in part as follows:

​After receiving sniper fire and maneuvering in the direction of fire on 19 March 1993, Specialist Slane assisted first platoon in the seizure of a large cache of weapons that included: Rocket propelled and hand grenades, automatic rifles, pistols, mortars, claymore mines, crew-served weapons and large amounts ammunition………

As magnificent as it sounds that I ran the “wrong way” (as some people might say) while being shot at and that my actions resulted in the seizure of a huge volume of weapons, this bullet point doesn’t tell even a fraction of the story. I’m probably lucky that it tells that much of the story, or mentions this action at all. Also, it doesn’t specifically mention any of the other men who also ran the “wrong way” while taking fire. Szulwach, Douglass, Schmidt, Eaddie, Ferriero, Hughes, Forde, Estes, Beem, Lange, Mangold, Perez and Jones to name a few. It also doesn’t tell you anything about where this took place or any other specific detail other than I’m a wild-ass who, with a group of wild-asses that I just listed off, charged someone who was shooting at me and took his guns. While it inherently describes some good degree of danger that resulted in a “win” for our side, the entire truth of our deeds were stricken or omitted from the official log my battalion kept of everything that happened and everything we did in Somalia. And, it is no accident that it was omitted.

Aside from our firefight at 0200 early that morning with “Ali Tihad” (al-Itihaad al-Islamiya), the resulting patrol, and staying awake all night, I don’t recall anything particularly extraordinary about the day to this point.

Late morning, we were settling into our daily routine that we had perfected while on port duty. Those who weren’t on guard and had given up on sleeping played cards, did personal hygiene, ate or found other ways to pass the time until their shift started. The NCO’s cleaned up their make-shift quarters, which were basically a dilapidated fraction of a building, and made their rounds to each position to make sure their soldiers were where they were supposed to be.

Around noon, a flurry of activity caught the attention of SSG. Ferriero at the front gate. People in the streets seemed hurried and anxious, moving around like something had happened. There was lots of noise and commotion. He learned through an interpreter that there was some sort of altercation up the street to the west, which led up a hill and fed into a series of intersections and crossroads. Being somewhat bored by now, SSG. Ferriero decided to put together a patrol to investigate. Volunteers were taken, and we set out for a patrol of the surrounding area.

Some of the local MASF (local Somali militia) members accompanied our patrol as we followed the narrow, winding streets toward where the flurry of activity seemed to be concentrated. Some people appeared frantic as we got closer to some sort of medical clinic. As we entered the clinic, we found a table covered in blood, but no apparent patient was present. We theorized that our bullets had found their marks the night before, though we saw no bodies. The crowd seemed anxious and urging us like they wanted us to go into some walled off compound near where we were. It was a mosque, though not everyone was readily aware of that fact.

Everything seemed pretty calm as everyone waited for the NCO’s to decide our next move. After a few minutes of discussion, we were going to open one gate to what appeared to be a large villa and see if anyone there was in need of help. Again, we found nothing interesting, though Beem spotted a couple of hand grenades on our way out and said something just didn’t “feel” right. As we opened the gate to exit the villa, we started taking immediate fire from just up the street. We immediately hugged the wall closest us as several rounds ripped around us through the narrow alleyway.

As we took cover against the wall, SFC Jones accidentally discharged a tracer round that missed Mangold’s foot by inches as it lay there smoldering in the sand a couple of feet away. It seemed like almost a nervous fart of sorts. Mangold had a somewhat comical, yet extremely disapproving look on his face. Again, Mangold’s comic relief in the middle of a Somali shit storm, curtesy of SFC Jones. When I think of this today, I can hear SFC Jones’ famous phrase echoing through eternity. “If the shoe fits……!” How perfect. And if the shoe doesn’t fit, what then? He will blow your foot off and make it fit, that’s what. No disrespect intended, SFC Jones is one of the finest human beings I’ve ever known. And that is funny shit.

“Sorry about that!” SFC Jones said with a nervous smile.

“You’re a fucking dumb ass…” Mangold calmly but sternly said in a monotone voice.

By now the rounds were coming at us from at least two positions, one definitely on foot, the other from a fixed position up high. Several rounds were quickly exchanged downrange with our new friends in an effort to suppress the area where we believed the sniper rounds were coming from, the only structure that had a vantage point that could see over the walls to where we had been in the street. Having only started with a “teaser belt” (a partial belt of M60 ammo, usually 15-30 rounds of a 100-round belt) in my M60 and no assistant gunner, I retrieved another belt of 7.62mm from my butt-pack where I kept another 200 rounds.

The narrow alleyway got dusty and uncomfortable in a hurry as we tried to maneuver and take control of the situation.

With little warning, Eaddy and Forde were the first to take off in a sprint toward an attacker after his weapon jammed in the middle of the street when he popped out to fire on us again. Soon the rest of us followed close behind, hauling ass through the narrow, winding street, shots ringing out from all parties. I felt as though I had tunnel vision as we sprinted up the street and closed in on our attackers.

As Forde and Eaddy followed an assailant through one door into a compound, he discarded his weapon while the rest of us “rang the doorbell” on another door, rather a gate. That is to say, we kicked it the fuck open. Szulwach, Douglas, Lang and Schmidt breached the entrance and the rest of us followed in a hurry, followed by a flurry of butt-strokes (striking an opponent with the butt of your rifle).

Since I carried an M60 rather than a rifle, I offered one Somali who got up too fast what I call a “Rooster Tap” with the barrel of my 23lb weapon. He sat the fuck down in a hurry. When another Somali went for a revolver on his hip, Rick “Earl” Beem knocked him upside the head and told him “Cute Toy”.

“Exactly as I remember it! And I still have no idea why they dropped their weapons either!” ~ 1st Sergeant(RET) Daniel Ferriero, December 2015.

Inside the gates were several armed men, Somalis as well as Arabs who were surprised and perhaps a bit overwhelmed by our apparent zeal to send them to Allah to retrieve their virgins, which caused them to immediately drop their weapons, almost in unison. (To this day I do not know why.) It looked like they were gearing up for a party, and we were a little more than pissed off at our invitation, though it appeared their colleagues that were now being man-handled by Forde and Eaddy, had invited us prematurely. Grunts do love to party. And this was just our kind of party. I guess in actuality we had crashed this party before it really got good. Shit was extremely tense to say the least, but we were chilling the situation out expeditiously.

We then gathered the immediate twenty or so partiers to the center of the courtyard not far from where we had surprised them. This walled in complex isn’t just their villas, it contains the mosque where almost two months earlier we had chased an assailant who got away by disappearing through those gates. As Earl watched over the rowdy party goers, I went back outside to watch our six (guard our rear) with the machine gun, and then ultimately guided the commander to our location, while everyone else started looking around the compound. I eventually met up with SGT Wasik in the road to get a water resupply. It was Africa. It was really hot and we just got running through dusty streets exchanging gunfire. It kinda makes you thirsty, something I’ve previously mentioned. I had run down into the road to guide the commander already near the port which was only 100 meters away. I then ran up the street and returned to the compound, as things were getting even more interesting.

“WTF is this shit?” Schmidt asked aloud as he observed an awkward piece of wood sticking out from where it shouldn’t.

Our friends were growing a little agitated as our curiosity led us further into their dwelling. Their apparent leader, seemingly an Arab, who was standing in the very center and completely surrounded by his friends, tried to step out like he was going to intervene before we got any further. Earl and 22 years of eating Iowa corn quickly ended his plight, as Earl grabbed him and put him back in order. Now shit got REALLY heated again, as his colleagues became irate. At this point Sgt. Douglas, SSG. Ferriero and I came over with our interpreter, Mohammed, who had come with the commander.

“Slane, keep an eye on the pricks.” SSG Ferriero said in his strong New Jersey accent. “My pleasure, Sergeant.” I replied eagerly. “Mohammed, tell that guy, I’m going to his house and fuck all of his wives tonight if he doesn’t chill the fuck out.” I said to Mohammed, as I pointed at their highly agitated leader. “No.” Mohammed quickly but quietly replied. “What? Tell him what I said!” I demanded. “I cannot.” Mohammed said quietly. “Why the fuck not? Tell him what the fuck I said.” I replied to him. “If I tell him this thing, this man will kill my entire family. Everyone. And everyone I know.” Mohammed said with a worried look on his face. “Oh, alright, dude. Can you at least tell him I think he’s pretty?” I asked.

To my surprise, Mohammed complied or at least I think he did. My Somali is a bit rusty. Everyone in the group of prisoners seemed pretty pissed off but quiet, so, whatever he said did the trick. I pointed at the leader who was glaring at me like his head was going to explode and held a fist at him. He was staring at me so hard that I think he actually thought he could make me die by looking. The same look he was giving Beem. He was not afraid of us one bit.

“The way their leader was looking at me…. I had never encountered that level of hatred in my entire life.” ~ SGT Rick “Earl” Beem.

While Stare Wars Episode I was playing out between me and my new friend Ahkmed the Shithead, Schmidt and Lange were down in some hidden room under the floor exclaiming “Look at all this shit!” as they pulled weapon after weapon out. Szulwach and Douglas had also found plenty of party favors, as had everyone else who was searching the compound. There were weapons everywhere.

“Look at this fucking shit. Fucking claymore mines and mortars? They would have wiped us the fuck out if we hadn’t popped in here!” SSG Ferriero said.

“And what the fuck is this shit? SAM’s? So if we called for help the QRF would fly in here in Blackhawks and get blown out of the sky?!?!” SSG. Ferriero continued in full form, like a Jersey mob boss about to whack some fools.

​ There were several shelves of various mortars and grenades.

Oh, and don’t forget SAM’s….That’s right. Surface to air missiles (9K32 Strela-2 or 9K34 Strela-3), anti-armor missiles, crew served weapons, grenades of every type, piles of assault rifles, pistols and ammunition for all of it. They had enough hardware to arm the entire city it seemed. And weapons just kept getting found, in every corner, underground, behind doors, absolutely everywhere.

By this time, the commander had arrived with Spc. Jovino, the company RTO and a guy us younger soldiers had gone to basic training with. The commander was getting the scoop from SFC Jones and SSG Ferriero as Jovino gave me the “what’s up nod” with his usual southern California wise-ass smirk, like he knew something really, really big was going on. The commander listened intently, hands on his hips as usual. I could still hear “Observe the wall” echoing out, except this time he was observing a shit pile of weapons, some of which we hadn’t yet seen in Somalia yet, like surface to air missiles. The commander then walked around while continuing to ask questions about what led us here and who did what. I could see the genuine look of concern on his face as he walked by the piles of weapons we were laying out, and still carrying out from various buildings. He was thinking everything that SSG Ferriero had pointed out earlier. These guys were going to mess us up, and could have. We were actually outgunned by these guys.

And we got another surprise, a PRC-77 military radio, and it was on our unencrypted frequency. They had been listening to us and our radio chatter, monitoring our movements. Where did they get this radio?

Jovino continued the radio chatter back to HQ while more and more weapons piled out.

Suddenly we had unexpected guests. A “spook” (I know his name but whatever) appeared uninvited, though they really didn’t need an invitation. One of them said a few words to the shithead who had tried to kill me with his eyeballs, and then continued over to the commander. Mr. Shithead was smiling now. Why I did not know, but I made sure his smile disappeared quickly. I was quite charming when I really, really tried. All 6’4” 230 charming pounds of me.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here?” the spook said excitedly.

Our spook guests were speaking with the one of the officers and it apparently wasn’t going well. He was yelling and I distinctly heard the spook say “This never happened. You’re not supposed to be here. You were never here.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Are you serious?” someone in charge (maybe more than one) replied, appearing extremely agitated.

They then took the “leader” off to the side and I could hear the SF officer scolding him. “What are you doing? I thought I told you…. [couldn’t hear]” the spook was saying. “We had an agreement! And you’re fucking shit up!” he continued.

What the actual fuck was going on I wondered. They know each other. They REALLY know each other. And before I knew it, he was telling our commander that we were letting them ALL go.

The group we had fought now twice this day was called “al-Itihaad al-Islamiya”, they were Islamic fundamentalists who were added to the United States list of terror groups in 2001, and were the precursor to the Islamic Courts, and a known ally of Al Qaeda. Today you know them as Al-Shabaab, or, Al Qaeda in Somalia.

“Keep the weapons, but we’re letting the prisoners go and you were never here!” the spook informed us.

“This is fucking bullshit!” someone yelled.

“Call whoever you want and confirm, but this is what’s happening!” the officer told him. The rest of us were standing there in amazement, not sure if what was happening was a really bad joke, or what. It became apparent that it actually WASN’T a joke as the spook started picking out some of the weapons we had confiscated, and handing them to the prisoners he was now freeing.

“Stand down!” he said to me. “Your wish is my command……” I uttered angrily. “Are you kidding me? You’re giving them weapons?!?” SSG Ferriero screamed to no avail as they tried to listen to the radio. “They just tried to fucking kill us!”

“The way I see it is that at that time we were conventional infantry performing a conventional infantry mission and we are not bound to keep it a secret.” ~ Senior Special Forces Sergeant Brian Szulwach, December 2015.

“GOD DAMNIT!!” someone was heard yelling as they slammed down the hand mic on the top of the Humvee. He had apparently received the confirmation we dreaded. We were not here. And this did not happen. We apparently just found an entire arsenal of weapons lying around in the road I guess, and with no explanation. “What the fuck is going on, sir?!?” SSG Ferriero exclaimed. “We’re letting them go and we’re leaving. This never happened.” A reply came. “That’s bullshit, sir! And not only are we letting these mother fuckers go, but we’re arming them?” SSG Ferriero yelled.

But that was it. Game over. The prisoners were gone and we loaded two 5 tons full of weapons of every kind imaginable. Including Russian surface to air missiles. Eventually, we grudgingly left the compound and headed back to the port. Obviously, we spent the rest of the night, if not the rest of our lives, discussing the significance of the Arab ring leader of a group of Somali Jihadists who was camped out approximately 100 meters from where we were about to catch some sleep.

You know the story; my enemy’s enemy is my friend? Our government has played that game for a long time, and soldiers are the pawns in that dangerous game.

Though we didn’t know who Al Qaeda was back then, we now know they had been building a presence in Somalia since the fall of the Sid Barre regime in 1991, and it was allied with this group, al-Itihaad al-Islamiya, with the goal of building an Islamic State in Africa. Who these guys are specifically, I cannot say for sure, though I have my suspicions. But they kept bad company, like the CIA, and I can judge them by that. An Arab in the middle of an African Civil War, just hanging out, looking for some rental property I suppose. I don’t know. And I likely never will. And I will never forget how absolutely every Somali was terrified of their ringleader. Because they knew something about him that we didn’t know.

I guess that’s it. I’m obligated to secrecy and I can never tell you this story. And you will never know what the spooks was doing, or who they were. Except no one ever specifically or directly told me that I was never there or it was a secret. But I guess we found the terrorists Israel had warned us about.

In December 1992 as troops moved to Somalia, Bin Laden and Al Qaeda are known to have carried out their first attacks directly on US troops by bombing hotels the non-combat troops were staying at in the middle east. After a remote detonated mine killed several MP’s in Mogadishu in August, 1993, it was said that Al Qaeda provided the hardware to carry out the attack. Though that attack was not the first like it. MSG Larry Freedman had been killed, and 3 of his team member wounded, by a similar mine in December of 1992 while on a classified mission. And in a Federal Indictment in the United States, Bin Laden was specifically indicted for his involvement in Somalia. Indictments were issued for Al Qaeda for their involvement in Mogadishu, and Kismayo. However, at the time, US analysts at the CIA didn’t consider al-Itihaad al-Islamiya a real threat in the 90’s because they thought they were idealistically different than Al Qaeda. And by the evidence I provide you today, the CIA was actively supporting al-Itihaad al-Islamiya or engaging them in some way that was less than healthy.

I am sure you don’t need much convincing as to why the presence of Al Qaeda and Surface to Air Missiles in Somalia is an important topic. The government went through great lengths to play down the possibility of the existence of SAMs in Somalia after the climax of October 3rd and 4th……and maybe they’re right. But there is another incident where a Blackhawk was shot down in Somalia that few know about, to include people who were physically in Mogadishu when it was shot down in the middle of the night on 25 Septempter, 1993, while traveling 100 knots over the city. An impossible shot with an RPG.

This chapter was an introduction to the first Americans known to have directly face Al Qaeda and their Somali counterparts, Al Shabaab. This is the true start to the War on Terror.

SFC Jones tried to submit award recommendations for us all for Bronze Star Medals for this action. They were denied. I guess maybe because it never happened.

A big part of the “Behind the Gun” storyline is somewhat of an odyssey of military service. As we’ve read about the soldiers who trained and led me and my cohorts, and read about my peers, now we get to look at the soldiers I trained. The first soldier I chose to write about is Jeff Barton. I chose Jeff for many reasons, not the least of which is that I feel he is one of my greatest success stories as a leader. But as you’ll read, it was messy for both of us.

Soon after my tour in Somalia I was promoted to sergeant and found myself welcoming a new COHORT to A CO 1-87IN. After they arrived at the barracks by bus one evening, Barton recalls the realization setting in that the hard part wasn’t actually graduating Infantry School at Ft. Benning. He recalls the reality setting in as I “greeted” them along with the other NCO’s from the company. I’m not really sure that we planned it to be a shock session, but that’s the way it played out. As they unassed the buses and offered handshakes and smiles, the bloodshed quickly began. Barton, Surette, Ramos, McCabe, Ratliffe and Victor were among those assigned to first platoon. And what they had were a bunch of NCO’s and “Spec-4 mafia” that had recently returned from Somalia. To say we were crusty or hard would be a gross understatement.

Barton, a young 18 year old kid from Illinois who had inquired about Bob Hope coming to visit during OSUT, emerged before me with the biggest fucking smile I recall seeing on anyone in uniform, certainly in an Infantry Battalion. He looked as though he had just arrived at Disneyland.

“What the fuck are you smiling about, private?” I barked in his face.

“Uh…….” he replied repeatedly, almost stuttering.

“Beat your fucking face!” I responded.

And so began a beautiful relationship. Jeff will be the first to tell you that out of his cohorts, he had to work twice as hard to be successful at soldiering. In the beginning, he found himself struggling to keep the pace during our morning runs, or our long road marches and everything in between. When Surette became one of the M60 gunners, Barton was made his AG (Assistant gunner). This gave Barton one of the heaviest loads in the platoon, a load he was initially ill equipped to handle.

The smoke sessions continued for Barton just about every time he was in proximity to me; pushups, flutter kicks, iron mikes….jump squats while holding the M60 over his head, Koala-fication, and anything else I could come up with. I required him to carry a 2 quart canteen at all times just so I could smoke him and make sure he stayed hydrated. It was like I would see his big smile and just want to kill him instantly. It isn’t because I didn’t like him. Liking him wasn’t my job. He was a likeably and genuine guy. The problem was that he reminded me of someone, someone who had been ill equipped to deal with the reality of combat, someone who had been my own assistant gunner in Somalia; Spaceboy.

As those initial months went on, Barton started to reach a breaking point. Surette and his other cohorts would often try to run interference for him to divert my attention. They would try and stand up for him from time to time as well, which just gave Barton some company during his random PT sessions. Then the day finally came; he was completely broken. He asked me to send him to the motor pool, claiming he just wasn’t cut out for the infantry. My reply was to offer him a deal he initially regretted: Give me until the end of the summer and if I don’t finish making you an infantryman, I will get you off the line and into the motor pool. He agreed. The smoke sessions continued and the day came when he had to choose between being a grunt or working in the motor pool.

As my cohort and one of my team leaders “The Grinch” (CPL Grish) led Barton to HHC to meet his new first sergeant and become a driver while the rest of A CO 1-87 IN was given orders for proceed with Operation Uphold Democracy in Haiti. The problem was that Barton had made the decision and the request was put in before his transformation had been complete. It had been pretty recent that he had changed completely. Barton was hard by now, I couldn’t rattle him, nor did I feel compelled to try. And the cohesion that had been built amongst his cohorts was stronger than any glue you could imagine. It was more like a weld. At first Barton went along with the transfer thinking he had no choice. But then he remembered that he now had balls, and so he used them.

“Well, what do you think first sergeant? Can Barton change his mind?” Grish asked with a huge smile on his face.

“Well, Uh….I guess it’s not if you really want to go back to A company?” the first sergeant responded.

Aboard a Blackhawk after departing the deck of the USS Eisenhower, 2 minutes out, Sept. 1994

As Grish returned to the company with a huge smile and Barton in tow, I could see the pride on Barton’s face as the platoon congratulated him on his decision. Now we had work to do.

After spending a little over a week aboard the U.S.S Eisenhower, we Air Assaulted into Port Au Prince, Haiti on the morning of 19 September, 1994. All of us were carrying at least twice the traditional combat load for ammunition and Barton and Surette being the M60 team, definitely had the heaviest loads in the platoon. As we approached our LZ we could see a large plume of smoke billowing out of the fields we were heading towards. No one knew what to expect and it certainly added to the adrenaline rush. As we un-assed our Blackhawk with what seemed like 1000lbs of gear a piece, we had the added extra pleasure of jumping those few feet out of the aircraft and right into a hole, the reason I limp on my right ankle to this day. Ignoring my ankle, the next immediate situation was twofold; we were taking fire from the rooftops across the field and as we started to maneuver, we quickly lost a couple of guys as heat casualties within 100 meters of the LZ due to the ridiculously heavy loads we had (Time Magazine actually wrote an article about how the brass had accidently given us an unedited packing list with everything that had been suggested during the planning meetings).

SGT Beem was giving an IV to PVT Stroup while our medic, SPC Pedulla, took care of the others as the sound of gunfire and the crack of bullets filled the air. It wasn’t overwhelming fire by any means, but just enough to make me smile as we tried to maneuver and respond to the several gunmen on the rooftops. In the midst of the chaos I turned to see Barton smiling back at me.

“Still want to go to the fucking motor pool, Barton?” I shouted.

“Fuck no, SGT!” he quickly replied.

That genuine smile this “kid” from Illinois had was now different; just as genuine, but a little twisted now. Like mine. Only grunt would smile under such circumstances, and all while carrying 200 lbs of gear and ammo. Not only had Barton made it, he wasn’t among the privates doing the “kickin’ chicken” from heat stroke. While I am sure nerves played into the situation for those who were, the SNAFU on the packing list was a major factor.

As we maneuvered towards a walled section of the city, two sergeants from 3rd Platoon took grenade shrapnel to the face and were being treated. I asked SSG Morris if he was ok as he looked dazed and bloodied while the medics treated him and the other sergeant, but appeared to be ok and just sort of shrugged his shoulders. We quickly commandeered a truck from a Haitian using the international sign for “let me borrow your truck”. In other words, we pointed an AT4 rocket at it as we “gestured” for him to stop. After loading our excess gear and casualties on the truck, we made a casualty collection point and cached our gear so we could continue the mission. Mission after mission in Haiti, Barton proved his worth.

After riding in Chinooks with TF 160 into the high country in Haiti, we performed weeks of patrols in the mountains with the 3rd Special Forces group near the border of the Dominican Republic. We had done similar missions in Somalia with Special Forces on occasion.

The terrain could be pretty unforgiving, especially factoring in the heat and humidity. As I led one patrol that was about 10k out, we found ourselves on a nearly vertical incline as we traversed the hillsides and suddenly emerged into a small farming village. Barton was right on my heels the whole way packing the infamous M60 gear, his gunner Surette smiling next to him. A few months prior and this sight might have surprised me. But now it was just normal.

Barton had the luxury of being one of three soldiers chosen to stay behind as Hurricane Gordon hit Haiti and TF 190 abandoned the main base near the port. We were given no standing orders and fully expected to be relieved shortly since the water was already waist high as everyone evacuated. The rushing water turned the minutes to hours as darkness set. We had no food, no communications, little water as the lightning tore the sky from end to end amidst the current and deafening wind. We were left on the lower end of the base which formed a sort of fish bowl effect as the water got higher and higher. We spent hours swimming around in the dark looking for refuge and even tried climbing the connex, but were far too tired by then to get up it.

As all manner of debris floated by in the darkness, we were occasionally shocked by something we didn’t expect; corpses of some of the more than 1,100 Haitians that drowned in the Hurricane. Another thing we didn’t realize in this tropical country is that we were becoming hypothermic with the 20-30 degree drop in temperature and being submerged in water. First it was Barton who began stuttering and asking for help, telling us that he thought he might have hypothermia. When I looked at Ratliffe and Barton with my flashlight, they were both pale and shivering. SPC Gross and I again started swimming around the base looking for shelter when we found the phone tents up near the front of the compound. Not only were they on higher ground, but the tables in those tents went up to just under my armpits.

I don’t know how much time elapsed between realizing Barton and Ratliffe were hypothermic and our finding the tents, but SPC Gross and I drug the two through water that had been at my shoulders and up to Barton’s neck, until we got to the tent and erected it’s center pole. We then positioned the tables around the edges of the tent, threw the two of them on top, and had them strip down out of their wet clothes and get into their sleeping bags that were dry inside the waterproof bags in their rucksacks. I spent the night reflecting on what we had gone through for the previous 10 hours or so, watching the water occasionally barely come over the lip of the table I was on, thanking God for our turn of fortune. By now, we were all hypothermic. It would be two days before we saw anyone.

I was proud of the men with me that night. Not one time did one complain or question me. They acted as though it was just another day at the office. I guess in the Infantry, it was. Barton’s transformation was confirmed in my mind. And countless other times as well.

After linking up with the 10th Special Forces near Belladère, Haiti, a white Toyota pickup sped past several attempts to halt it. The two men and woman inside were killed in a hail of gunfire, likely because they had not understood the directions to stop. Barton went along with the day as though nothing had happened, yet another mark of a grunt. “Fuck it, it doesn’t mean anything.” Only a grunt knows it probably means everything. But it’s best not to care. He proved he was no Spaceboy as I had originally feared.

One of Barton’s cohort’s Ramos doing a jungle extraction in Panama

The initial forces in Haiti wore the coveted “combat patch” for all of about a month or so, before the Army told them to remove it. There would be no Arrowhead device on our Expeditionary Medal, no CIB’s or CMB’s. Our two wounded sergeants on the LZ did not even receive the Purple Heart, which is a medal of right. It was all a purely political move. Though the Expeditionary Medal grants them entrance to the Veteran’s of Foreign Wars, the operation was largely swept aside. And while I wouldn’t say it was anywhere near as tough as our time in Somalia overall, the operation’s participants deserved far more recognition than they received.

While I went on to serve with the 7th ID and then the 25th ID (Light), Barton finished out his time with A CO and the 10th MTN (Light) doing several rotations in Panama and the jungle training center before it closed. He went on to become the platoon’s RTO, a position not given to a slouch, and eventually returned to Illinois where he married his wife Sarah and fathered two children, Keaton and Conner.

It was another one of my soldiers, Andrew Majuri, who first coined the phrase “Barton the Spartan” as a nickname for Jeff. Majuri was a sharp contrast to Jeff because things came naturally to Majuri. As we departed for Haiti I convinced the commander to send Majuri to Ranger School as a private, something that required waivers because of division policy, and he passed with flying colors. He was just a natural soldier and easy to train, something I can’t take any credit for.

It’s Barton that I am most proud of. He was my greatest initial challenge as a leader. And I saw in him something that he didn’t recognize at the time. I saw that he was a grunt, all he had to do is let me break him…..and then trust me to build him back up. I am pretty sure this tactic would cost me my stripes in today’s Army and I’ve only given you a hint at the pain he went through to get there. But you get the point.

Talking with Barton twenty years later, he would accuse me of being the reason he survived that hurricane. I would counter that in some way, maybe many ways, he saved me as well.

For my friend Eric Smith – An American Sniper. Albeit a brief chapter, it’s among one of my favorites.

When I hear the word “sniper”, one person instantly comes to mind; my “battle-buddy” (or battle for short) from basic training, Eric Smith. Smith was a great soldier, a badass, and among the finest human beings I have ever known. I’ve always felt privileged to be his friend. As soon as we met and were made battle buddies in basic training, we realized we were twins. The resemblance is uncanny, though somehow he got caught using my ID card in basic training while trying get into the chow hall, something that still puzzles us both to this day. You can probably only tell me from Eric due to my eyes being green. We were also the same height, weight and build and also both played football in college. We also both left college early after hearing that same patriotic call to duty. Today, we are both college graduates and also both work in IT.

When A Co 1-87 deployed with TF 2-87 to Somalia, we brought along one other 1-87 asset, our scout platoon. They were the eyes and ears of our battalion. They got priority over training and you had to tryout to be a scout. Many in the scout platoon were Ranger or Sniper qualified, of those, many were both.

In December I had been introduced to their platoon sergeant while at Baledogle as a potential candidate to become a scout, and I was genuinely excited about the prospect. I was to follow up with him once we returned state-side (though I never did). One obvious advantage I saw to being a scout is that they got higher priority in the battalion for all the best schools. Some of them had even attended SERE School (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) which was a tough school to get (and pass). Smith had gone to Sniper School while still a private pretty early in his Army Career. It would be well over another year before I had the opportunity to go to Sniper School, which is a highly competitive and highly sought after school.

Our scouts typically operated in small teams, sometimes as few as 2 men would compose one of their teams, especially when they were employed specifically as snipers. Sometimes they even worked alone. Being in a firefight, and usually at night in Somalia, many people might never have actual knowledge that their bullets ever found their mark; which is a luxury or a comfort in some ways in my opinion. A luxury never enjoyed by a sniper. He only fires when he has a target acquired, and he fires exactly one deliberate shot, hence their motto “One Shot, One Kill”, making each and every kill an entirely intimate affair. One of his main purposes in life is to harass the enemy in a way that they become demoralized, by randomly picking them off at will, while never being discovered. Another major function they have is to provide an extra layer of security for guys like me who might be on a patrol or kicking in doors, unaware of danger that may be lurking nearby. In this role, they acts as our guardians in a very real sense.

Much of our time in Somalia reminded me of the stories I had read about the LRRP’s (Long-range reconnaissance patrols; pronounced “Lurps”) in Vietnam in that we operated in such small numbers while performing our air assaults, reconnaissance missions and ambushes. The way we lived day to day was also very similar; in the dirt. This was a pretty unique experience among those who deployed to Somalia.

Many times we would break down into teams of 8 men or less during missions. With the scout platoon, this was even more true and applied to almost every mission they did, with very few exceptions. Occasionally they would patrol in the streets like the rest of us might do, but usually they were in concealed positions as snipers or doing reconnaissance. Also, their engagements were usually more equally matched than our typical engagements seeing how there were probably never more than four of them operating together at any given time. At this time in Somalia, most engagements were with 5 or fewer Somalis at any given time, though you’ll read about a few exceptions.

One night in March of 1993 in the Lower Shabelle region of Somalia, outside one of the smaller towns in proximity to Merca, Smith had laid in wait for hours in a well concealed sniper position. He wasn’t far from where I had been during the events of “The Gift”, but the circumstances and outcome of his mission would be much different. He was monitoring the area for guerrilla or militant clan activity when he suddenly acquired a target. As previously stated, the night vision of the day wasn’t particularly clear, and like I had done in “The Gift”, he took his time and studied his target carefully.

Once he was sure his target was armed, he prepared to take the shot. He steadied his breathing as he dialed in on his target and began to apply steady pressure to the trigger. When properly done, it should almost be a surprise to the shooter when the weapon discharges. At this point, as romantic as it might have sounded to say that in this moment he pondered the weight of taking a human life, it just simply isn’t true. Having a legitimate and identifiable target, training takes over and you do what you’re trained to do as though it was second nature. Because it is.

As the shot rang out, his target being over 100 meters away (the approximate length of a football field), fell instantly in the dark. It was a headshot. Before moving an inch, Smith radioed in a brief SITREP to higher and reported the incident, and then scanned the area for some time to ensure there weren’t more targets. It would have been foolish to have gone anywhere away from the position.

After a brief wait of about fifteen minutes, everything seemed clear as a Humvee which had been hastily racing to the scene, pulled over on the road near well his target had fallen, where it then stopped. Several soldiers got out and then secured the immediate area as Smith made his way toward the Humvee.

The officer in charge walked over with Smith to examine the body when he realized his target may not have been armed. As they looked down they couldn’t see a weapon.

“Are you sure he was armed? I don’t see a weapon. Did someone take it?” the officer in charge inquired.

“No, sir, no one has gone anywhere near the body until just now. Yes, sir, I’m positive he was armed.” Smith replied.

The officer continued to ramble on until Smith himself began to doubt that the man had been armed and that he may have made a mistake.

“Hold on” the officer said as he walked quickly back toward his Humvee and dug around in the back for a minute. He then returned with an AK-47 and positioned it near the body. “I’ve got you covered, son.” The officer said.

At this point, Smith was thoroughly confused at what was going on. Before any more discussion could take place, another Humvee pulled up that carried this officer’s superior. He began to get the details from Smith and the group about exactly what had transpired. Since it was clearly evident that it had been a headshot, and that the man had been armed (due to the AK-47 lying next to him), the new ranking officer on site offered Smith his congratulations on a job well done and then ordered that the body be turned over onto its back.

“Let’s roll this body over” he told a couple of the soldiers nearby.

As they rolled the body over everyone was more than a little surprised to see yet another weapon which had been lying under the dead man.

“This man had two weapons?” the ranking officer asked Smith.

Being in an even more awkward position at this point and not wanting to lie, Smith just sort of shrugged his shoulders and stared in silence as they continued to examine the scene. The first officer on the scene who had placed the weapon was the same officer that had previously ordered a group of us to hang the bodies of three dead Somalis up to serve as a warning. I had also later learned that it had been this same officer that had created so much tension during the events described in “The Gift”, and why I had to repeatedly refuse to take a shot on unarmed civilians, while he remained adamant that at least one of them had been armed and therefore insisted that I take the shot. Now he’s placing weapons by bodies where he believed the deceased had been killed by mistake. I saw a pattern, and one that I didn’t like, and one that Smith was deeply troubled by as well.

Having done his job, Smith returned to Merca where we discussed the event in great detail. A few days later, a formation was called and he was awarded The Army Achievement Medal, a medal at the time normally given in training or while garrison stateside. Certainly not a wartime medal at the time, and something we joked about. Given the amount of danger he was in while sitting there alone all night in a combat zone, taking that shot and remaining calm and collected, and oh, for having integrity, I would say that AAM felt more like a slap in the face than it did an award. Like many in Somalia, Smith had actually been put in for a BSM (Bronze Star Medal) which was denied without even being processed; a topic for discussion in another chapter.

Good soldiers don’t do anything with the idea that they will be earning a medal. Medals are never a motivation for their actions. People who are motivated by the prospect of medals don’t belong in the military in my opinion. However, giving an inappropriate medal to recognize what a soldier has done, or failing to recognize a soldier at all, demoralizes all soldiers.

Smith never voiced an opinion one way or the other about receiving a lowly AAM outside of our initial joking. In my opinion, the act itself was probably best suited as a bullet point in a long list of bullet points for a higher award, and one that was a “wartime” award rather than a training award, that encompassed his service in Somalia. But as previously stated, that topic has its own chapter.

What was very apparent to many of us by this time in our deployment to Somalia was that some people, certain career officers, were more interested in body counts and creating more war than they were creating or maintaining any peace. I’m not sure if they were just following orders of their own or if this was their doing. It was best to just not give a crap; just focus on doing your job right and going home. By now, we were likely the most cynical people you might ever meet. A trait most of us will carry with us for the rest of our lives.

With a last name like Clayborn, his nickname was chosen long before he ever even dreamed of becoming a soldier. It was even decided long before he was ever born. CSM Kenneth Lee Clayborn got his start in the Army like the rest of us in A CO 1-87 IN and like many of us, credits the strong leadership we had under men like CPT Parks, 1SG Bill Poe and 1LT Tom Ditomasso for giving him a great start in a long and prestigious military career. Almost every soldier I’ve interviewed for this book points to 1-87 IN in the late 80’s to mid 90’s as one of the finest infantry units ever. And guys like Claymore made that a reality. I’m amazed when I reflect both on the leaders we had at the time as well as what my peers have accomplished over the years since.

In Somalia, SPC “Claymore” was an RTO for our company scout/at/mortar section where I learned to appreciate his wit and his humor as well as his tactical knowledge. He was also very good at knowing when each of those traits was appropriate to show. He was a dedicated soldier and a great role model to be around as a young E-4, though I probably could have taken more from his example on when to not be a wise ass. SFC Jones of 2nd platoon and Claymore enjoyed a bond that still probably echoes through the halls of the A CO barracks to this day; “Claymore! Drop and give me 50, son!”.

While many people may know about his more current history in the Army, I’d bet the reason he has a star in his Combat Infantryman’s Badge is a mystery to some. CSM Clayborn was a member of one of the first, as well as one of the last Army battalions to have boots on the ground in Somalia; from the start of the operation (A CO), through the Battle of Mogadishu (C CO) and it’s aftermath (B CO). The legacy of the 87th regiment in Somalia starts with the first awards of the coveted Combat Infantryman’s Badge for the 10th Mountain Division since WWII in Afgoye, a suburb of Mogadishu. We were also among the first Americans to go to places like Mogadishu and it’s infamous Barkaar Market. We performed countless Air Assault missions and probably covered more ground than any other conventional Army unit in country, even more than most Special Ops Forces; from Beledweyne to Kismayo. In Kismayo, we engaged rival clans and stopped clan fighting and broke up subsequent bloody riots after Gen Morgan and Col Jess’ forces clashed in and around the city, an engagement that started the same day as the first bombing of the World Trade Center in NY.

SPC Clayborn with President George Bush in Baledogle, Somalia on 1 January 1993.

In Marka we faced the predecessor of Al-Shabaab and the Islamic Courts, a group called al-Itihaad al-Islamiya, who were known allies of Al Qaeda. While in Somalia we were given security briefings on Israeli Intelligence that warned of terrorist groups operating in our area. The problem for us is that we had never heard of Al Qaeda, so the name meant nothing at the time, though we were all relatively sure who the warning was about. By the time we left Somalia, we had several engagements and skirmishes with the group that would come to eventually rule Somalia after the UN left. Though our deployment was tough, we also took every opportunity to have some fun when we could, and guys like Clayborn made that easy.

After Somalia, CSM Clayborn and I were selected for the E-5 promotion board, which we attended together. And for the record, I beat the CSM on points that day by scoring a perfect 200 to his 195, something I told him I wouldn’t mention. I don’t think he reads much of what I write, so I figured I’d go ahead and slip that in there.

After a fairly brief break following our deployment to Somalia and breaking in some new cohorts, CSM Clayborn went to the 25th ID while 1-87 again made history when we Air Assaulted off the deck of the U.S.S Eisenhower at the start of Operation Uphold Democracy with the rest of 1-87 IN. This was the Army’s largest air operation from a navel vessel since the Doolittle Raids of WWII. CSM Clayborn and the 25th ID relieved us in Haiti in January of 1995. This would be the last I saw or heard from him for the next 20 years.

Command Sergeant Major Kenny L. Clayborn enlisted in the Army in October of 1990 at Cincinnati, Ohio and completed Basic Combat Training and Advanced Individual Training at Fort Benning, Georgia as an 11B Infantryman. His assignments include 1-87th Infantry Battalion, Fort Drum, New York, 1-27th Infantry Battalion, Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, Columbus Recruiting Battalion with Duty in Marion, Ohio, 1-21st Infantry Battalion Stryker, Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, the Mission Command Training Program at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, 2d Brigade Support Battalion and most recently the Command Sergeant Major of the 4th BN 23rd IN RGMT at JBLM, Washington. Currently Command Sergeant Major Clayborn serves as the 1st BDE United States Army Cadet Command, Command Sergeant Major.

CSM Clayborn has served in various duty positions to include Rifleman, Radio Telephone Operator, Machine Gunner, Team Leader, Squad Leader, US Army Recruiter, US Army Recruiting Station Commander, Platoon Sergeant, Recce Platoon Sergeant, Rifle Company First Sergeant, Stryker Company First Sergeant, Mission Command Training Program First Sergeant, Operations Sergeant Major and Battalion and Brigade Command Sergeant Major. He has deployed on multiple occasions to include Hurricane Andrew Relief in FL, Operation Restore Hope Somalia, Operation Uphold Democracy Haiti, Operation Iraqi Freedom II, Operation Iraqi Freedom 07-09 and Operation Enduring Freedom 11-12.

CSM Clayborn’s military and civilian education includes the Primary Leadership Development Course, Basic Noncommissioned Officer’s Course, Advanced Noncommissioned Officer’s Course, the United States Army Sergeants Major Academy, Pathfinder Course, Air Assault Course, United States Army Recruiter Course, Light Infantry Leaders Course, Emergency Medical Technician Course, Sniper Leaders Employment Course, and Stryker OPNET Course. He has also earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Management and Master’s Degree in Homeland Security from AMU.

CSM Clayborn’s awards and decorations include the Bronze Star (1 OLC), Meritorious Service Medal (3 OLC), Combat Infantryman’s Badge (2nd Award), Expert Infantryman’s Badge, Pathfinder Badge, Air Assault Badge, and the Drivers Badge.
CSM Clayborn is married to the former Miss Sandra Ann French of Sierra Vista, Arizona and they have a 17 year old daughter, Haley, and a 16 year old son, Cody.

Both the CSM and his wife are also avid body builders who compete regularly in all natural body building competitions. They both recently won several trophies at a competition in KY.

I hope you come read “Behind the Gun” and learn more about “Claymore” and scores of other amazing soldiers who served in Somalia in a book that will tell much of the story that was never told about America’s involvement in Somalia, where the War on Terror was in it’s infancy.